Immutable

by Cidney Swanson

  “Why do you always have an excuse for everything you do?” demanded Martina.

  “An excuse? She needed a doctor. There were bills. Geez, Martina, grow up. Some of us have to earn our livelihood.”

  It was a proverbial slap to the face, but it stung like a real one. Neither of them spoke. The kerosene lamp burned steadily, casting deep shadows behind the room’s bulkier items. An exhausted breeze sighed through the open door and out the back window.

  “Well, Mutti’s gone, now,” said Martina. “But you didn’t quit, did you? What kind of person does that make you?”

  Matteo stared at her, his brows pulled angrily together. “The kind of person who owes a lot of money.”

  Oh.

  It hadn’t occurred to her there might be ongoing debts. But it didn’t change what had happened tonight.

  A child was fatherless. A man was dead.

  “I have to go,” said Martina, drawing an unsteady breath.

  “Don’t.”

  It was a whisper. A plea.

  “There’s nothing here for me now that Mutti is gone.” Martina felt tears forming behind her eyes. She blinked them back. “I want the other letter. The one addressed to Katrin.”

  “Okay.”

  Maybe Mutti had meant to write it to Martina and gotten them mixed up. It had happened a thousand times, growing up. She turned to the bedroom to retrieve the letter, Matteo trailing behind her.

  By the time she reached across the bed to pull the sheet back, she was crying again. Hard.

  “Martina.” Matteo placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “Don’t!” she snapped, twisting to face him. “A man died tonight, Matteo. Because of you.”

  Matteo inhaled sharply. “What?”

  “He smoked whatever drug you brought and he died of cardiac arrest. Right in front of me. Right in front of his wife and baby and … and …” Martina’s voice disappeared in a series of hiccupping sobs.

  Matteo sank onto the bed beside her.

  “There was a boy,” Martina said, between sobs. “A beautiful little boy with dark eyes….” She remembered the child’s cries, the way he brought the glass pipe to his father, the fear in his round eyes, the way he cried un ange, un ange!

  Matteo was whispering, no, no, no. He grasped his head between his hands. No, no, no.

  “I took him to the hospital but it was too late.” Her voice was unsteady.

  And then the bed shook. Once. Twice. Again. It took Martina a handful of seconds to realize Matteo was convulsing with silent tears. She wanted to leave. She wanted to leave him there, shaking and crying for what he’d done.

  She wanted to, but she couldn’t.

  A minute passed like that. Martina frozen. The bed shaking with Matteo’s silent paroxysms. And then he tried to speak. His voice was thick with emotion and came out hoarse, in staccato, barking sounds.

  “I’ve done … things … for Mutti’s sake,” Matteo took a gulp of air and then exhaled it all at once in a choking sob. “I’ve been … I…. Martina.” A gasp for breath. Another strangled sob. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry … so sorry.”

  His wracking sobs shook the bed again. Martina sat beside him without touching him. He couldn’t speak any more, didn’t try.

  I’m sorry, so sorry, so sorry.

  And then she was kissing his forehead.

  Hush, hush, hush.

  And kissing his cheek, damp with tears.

  Hush, hush, hush.

  And kissing his eyes, his thick lashes wet. And then he was kissing her back. Hungrily, insistently. The tears slowed, and then they stopped, and Martina and Matteo kissed one another like the world was ending.

  And it was. Her brothers were dying, or dead; Mutti was gone; Matteo was a stranger and her best friend and the love of her life all wrapped up together in a knot she couldn’t possibly untie.

  Hush, hush, hush.

  They clung to one another, hands on necks, hands on hips, hands tangled in hair. Martina kicked at the long skirt trapping her legs. She wasn’t kicking him away, she murmured, kissing his face beside one ear.

  He pulled his face from hers to look into her eyes, to be sure.

  “You’re so beautiful,” murmured the boy with eyes of sea-glass green. “I’ve thought of no one but you, the last two years. I never wanted anyone else.”

  She knew this. He didn’t have to say it. He drew a hand along her jaw, traced the curve of her neck, ran one finger down her breastbone. Martina shivered.

  “What are we doing?” he whispered.

  She didn’t know. But she knew she didn’t want to talk. Grabbing handfuls of his sun-bleached hair, she pulled his mouth back to hers.

  24

  STAY WITH ME

  Sint Maarten, the Caribbean

  Much later, as the approaching dawn was extinguishing the stars, turning the sky grey in the east, they were awakened by a sound coming from outside. A car door, slamming.

  Matteo jumped up. “If it’s Monsieur Thibaut, you have to let me do all the talking. Do you understand? I’m dead serious.”

  Martina half nodded. She tugged at her tank, which had pulled up, exposing her belly.

  “Wait here,” said Matteo.

  And then the ability to think rationally returned to Martina and she leapt forward, grabbing Matteo and taking them both to insubstantiality and safety.

  Oh. Or that. Matteo’s voice was clear in Martina’s head. That’s a good plan.

  There was a soft rap at the frame of the front door, still open from when Martina had entered under cover of dark night.

  “Hello?” The greeting-as-question was whispered.

  Take us to the other room so I can see who it is, said Matteo.

  Martina glided forward, hugging the wall of the next room out of habit—never give away your presence.

  It was a man. Alone. He was standing in front of the kerosene lamp, hands on his hips, head cocked to one side as if intending to interrogate the lamp.

  “Who left you burning?” muttered the stranger. He turned and called out another soft, “Hello?”

  The lamp was directly behind him now, and its light flared around him in an odd full-body halo. He cast the rest of the room in thick darkness. Martina wondered if this was Monsieur Thibaut. Or one of his henchmen? Thibaut seemed to know everything about Matteo.

  Why wasn’t Matteo saying anything?

  She decided to slip them both through the walls of the house to get outside where they could confer, solidly, for a few moments.

  She glided along the wall.

  No—stop! His thoughts were loud.

  Martina twisted left: her own NO.

  Wait! It’s not Thibaut.

  Martina paused.

  It’s Monsieur Jaquette.

  The lawyer.

  I need to speak to him. Please.

  Martina moved swiftly through the outer wall, bringing them both solid beside the hammock.

  “Stay out here,” whispered Matteo. “I’m not sure how safe Jaquette is.”

  Martina nodded.

  “He’s got connections to … to my boss,” Matteo added. “Please, don’t let him see you.”

  She nodded again. “I’ll ripple.” Seeing Matteo’s frown, she clarified. “It means turn invisible. I’ll be at your side, just in case you need to disappear.”

  This time, Matteo gave a quick nod. Then he strode to the front of the house, Martina following invisibly, one icy hand on his shoulder so he knew she was there.

  Matteo and Jaquette exchanged soft greetings, Jaquette offering his regrets, and then, a handful of papers.

  “These are for you,” said Jaquette.

  Matteo took the papers, flipping through the top ones.

  The kerosene lamp was flickering again and Matteo walked over to jiggle something until the light was steady and bright once more.

  “No electricity?” asked Jaquette, glancing around the room.

  “We did fine without it,” said Matteo. Martina heard the
defensive edge in his voice.

  “Listen,” said Jaquette, “I’ve been called to handle some of Monsieur’s affairs … elsewhere. But I wanted to give you a head start. These things, they can take time.”

  Matteo thanked the man, who seemed eager to depart, and followed him outside to his car.

  “I shouldn’t mention to Monsieur that you saw me, there’s a good lad,” said Jaquette as he got back in his car.

  “I won’t,” said Matteo. “Au revoir. And bon voyage.”

  The car pulled away down the dirt road, and Martina came solid once again.

  The air felt much cooler. There was a soft breeze. Her mind seemed to clear in the freshness of the morning. Whatever she felt for Matteo, it wasn’t enough. Not for who he had become. She couldn’t trust him.

  What had she been thinking? That she would settle down here and live on bartered fish and plantains with a boy who thought nothing of trafficking in deadly poisons?

  But that wasn’t fair. He had been distressed earlier. Very distressed. She’d never seen him cry like that—not even when Katrin died. He was sorry for what he’d done. She was sure of it.

  But even Dr. Helmann had been sorry for his sins, according to Matteo. And that hadn’t made Helmann a good person.

  Martina continued back to the house, composing herself. She found her bag, deposited on the floor by the bed. She stuffed her linen trousers inside, checking that her passport was still there.

  “What are you doing?” asked Matteo.

  “I can’t stay,” replied Martina, softly. “I can’t do this. I shouldn’t have come.” She wouldn’t look at Matteo. And then, when her traitorous eyes flickered to where he stood, he turned his back so that she couldn’t see what was in his eyes.

  “Please stay with me,” he murmured, turned from her. His head hung down.

  “I can’t.” She was sorry. Sorry for their love, sorry to go, sorry she was too afraid to trust him. She took her bag and walked back outside.

  “Please,” said Matteo, following her.

  She turned to look at his face, his beautiful face, one last time. Silent tears coursed down his cheeks.

  “Stay with me,” he whispered. “I love you.”

  I love you, too, her heart whispered back. “I have to go,” she said.

  His head bowed.

  And she vanished.

  No final goodbye. No drawn out explanation. No last kiss.

  “Au revoir!” Matteo called out, his voice bright with pain.

  Goodbye, thought Martina.

  His words haunted her as she flew along the winding roads.

  Stay with me.

  She watched the sun as it drew itself up slowly, slowly, a tired looking dawn.

  Stay with me.

  The airport lay just below her, concrete and dark skid marks, a pair of jumbo jets ready to depart.

  Stay.

  She passed invisibly inside the airport, through large glass windows, the viscous embrace of glass a cold mockery of the comfort of Matteo’s arms around her. She gazed, numb and exhausted, at the passengers rushing toward and through her, roller bags gripped tightly. People with destinations. People with destinies. People with purpose.

  She stared at them, their gaits expressing every shade of emotion: the newlyweds, strolling slowly, hand in hand; the ones fearful of flying, chewing fingernails and Tums; the quick stride of businessmen, someone else hauling their bags.

  And then she saw the long stride of someone she knew. Pfeffer. Pfeffer. What was he doing here? His face was pinched, an echo of the pain Martina felt inside. She looked about wildly for a place to come solid. What did he mean, coming here? What did it mean, the grief on his face? He turned into a men’s restroom. She nearly followed, but chose the women’s next door instead. It was empty and she didn’t even have to hide in a stall to come solid.

  She dashed back out, worried he might have somehow beat her out of the men’s room. Half a minute later he was back in the busy corridor, aiming for the glass doors that led outside.

  “Dr. Pfeffer,” she called.

  He stopped, turned. The anguish on his face was replaced by confusion.

  “Martina?”

  She stood there, not certain what to say, what to ask.

  “I’m so glad to find you,” replied Pfeffer, taking her hand warmly in both of his. Then he seemed to feel the awkwardness of the gesture and released her hand.

  “Svetlana wrote me,” he said softly. “Is she….?”

  “She’s gone.”

  His face twisted with pain, regret. “I came immediately. I’m so sorry. So very sorry.”

  Martina sank into a hard plastic chair in an endless row of hard plastic chairs.

  Pfeffer seated himself beside her. “Had the letter arrived a day sooner, I would never have sent you alone, Martina. I’m so, so sorry. For your loss. For you having to face it alone.” He rubbed his eyes. He looked tired. “I should have thought … I should have known.”

  “You couldn’t have known,” she said.

  “But to face it alone…. Child, I’m so sorry.”

  Martina did not reprimand him for calling her a child. “Matteo was there.” Her voice reported the fact of it, devoid of any emotional content.

  “Matteo?” Pfeffer sounded surprised. When Martina didn’t add anything to her statement, Pfeffer said, “I’m glad there was someone, then.”

  “I want to go home,” she said.

  “Of course, of course,” replied Pfeffer. “You’re sure … you’re sure you don’t want to stay another day or two?”

  “I’m sure. I want to go home.” Whatever she meant by that.

  “Very well. Stay here. You rest here. I’ll get tickets for the next flight.”

  She closed her eyes, holding tears back as his shoes click-click-clicked away from her. She collapsed onto her small bag. It smelled of lavender and, faintly, plumeria. She stopped trying to hold the tears back.

  25

  TWO KINDS OF GOOD

  Sint Maarten, The Caribbean

  As the jet engines screamed angrily at the Caribbean sea, Martina carried on an anguished interior monologue. What kind of person accused their best friend of murderous actions and then left him alone? What if he became … desperate? People sometimes became desperate in situations like this. Mutti drank herself to death, unable to face the truth about Helmann’s endgame and her small role in it.

  From there, Martina’s thoughts flew to the group of sleeper agents who’d ended their lives after learning they’d injected hundreds with Helmann’s deadly virus.

  Surely Matteo wouldn’t do anything stupid. Others had, but that didn’t mean Matteo would.

  After all, it hadn’t been news to him, that he delivered deadly drugs. He’d already had at least some idea of what it was he was doing. And he seemed to be living just fine with that knowledge. Martina’s mouth tightened to a thin line. This was what she needed to focus on: Matteo had known, and he’d lied to her about it. He delivered death in brown paper packages, accepted payment for misery and suffering. As for his excuse about being in debt—well, better to abandon those debts than to traffic in death. And what kind of person would work for someone like Monsieur Thibaut, anyway?

  She was right to leave Matteo alone. She could never trust someone like that.

  So why did it hurt so bad?

  She never should have kissed him. And she definitely shouldn’t have kissed him again, after she knew the truth about what he’d become. She brushed fingers along her lips as if to wipe the memory of those kisses away.

  If only.

  Martina sighed and leaned her cheek against the cool window at her side. Tiny ice crystals had formed along one edge of the window. That was what she needed to do with her heart: leave it here at 35,000 feet where it could ice over.

  When she returned to Nice, she would ask Pfeffer about moving on. She would focus on helping the other Angel Corps members in some new country, some new town, some place where no one knew Matte
o’s name. The thought comforted her and she began to drift to sleep.

  But then she thought of something else. What was it, exactly, that made her think she would be able to help those traumatized by guilt to recover? When she’d seen Matteo’s heaving sobs, his guilt, his grief, what had she done? She’d run away. She’d run from Matteo—a boy she’d loved—rather than stay to help him.

  What made her think she could act with compassion toward Angels whose actions had ended hundreds of lives? She might feel compassion, but there, in Matteo’s house, it had melted away under the harsh reality of what he’d done.

  She’d left him. Alone. She’d left Matteo alone with a shallow grave as his only source of comfort.

  While she sat in first class luxury, Matteo was probably searching his mother’s kitchen for something to barter in exchange for a scant dinner. A dinner he wouldn’t even finish himself, if his sharing of plantains with the boys last night was typical. And it probably was. Matteo had always been kind.

  The jet screamed again as they gained altitude. And Martina’s conscience screamed back at her.

  You left him alone.

  You shoved it in his face.

  And then you left him alone.

  A compassionate person would not have left him alone. But it had felt like the only choice. It felt right, a choosing of good over evil. Although, how sure was she that she knew the one from the other?

  Helmann had schooled them to be compassionate, not to be good. What was goodness, anyway? When you tried to do what was right, like Matteo trying to pay back what he owed or sharing his dinner with starving children, there was still no guarantee things would turn out well for all parties. What if those starving children had typhoid? Eating plantains would kill them if they had typhoid. Even the most innocent actions could reverberate with unintended consequences.

  Martina thoughts flew to her own actions, playing fée marraine in Nice. What unintended damage had she caused? She’d stolen. What if the money she’d stolen from cheating employers made those cheating employers fire someone for theft? Someone who needed the work and wouldn’t be able to feed his or her family without the employment?